


pretty vacant (new rose)

by skeletonannie



Series: london underground [1]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Buffy crossover, F/F, Gen, eventually we will meet the WHOLE GANG, punk never dies au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:12:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonannie/pseuds/skeletonannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>punk never dies au</p>
<p>carmilla enters the punk scene.  mattie is thrilled.</p>
<p>(eventual btvs/carmilla crossover)</p>
            </blockquote>





	pretty vacant (new rose)

“For god’s sake, Calla, would it kill you to bathe?”

            You pick your way carefully across the hardwood floors, kicking aside dirty underwear and curiously bloodstained t-shirts.  Calla hasn’t fed from a living human in decades, but this new _life style_ of hers often led to bloody ripped clothes and jagged hair littering the sink in the bathroom.

            She lazily lifts her head from the floor next to the record player, which is blasting some cacophony of noise that you can’t comfortably classify as _music_ , shooting you a smirk.  “Possibly.  I’m not willing to take that risk.  Now be quiet,” she drawls, before flopping her head back down onto the floor and closing her eyes.

            You roll yours before kicking her side with a pointed toe. “Honestly, darling, this whole ‘punk’ thing you’re embroiled in is taking a toll on your hygiene and thusly, the pleasure of your company.”

            She scoffs, rolls onto her tummy, swats at your foot.  “It’s not a ‘whole punk thing,’ _Matska_ ,” she pushes herself up and flicks her jagged bangs out of her eyes. “It is a way of life, you know? Like—like, fuck the ‘man,’ and fuck those assholes that are trying to police my body and shit, you know? I’m not your _property;_ I belong to _nobody_. I’m like—I’m like, like, a rogue citizen or some shit, man.  I’m my own person. Nobody _owns_ me, man.  I’m free—way freer than those yuppies with their dopey suits and constricting ties could ever be. I’ve _found_ myself, Matska.  Fuck hygiene. Fuck the system.” She rubs her eyes, clenches her jaw. “I’m free.”

            You try not to laugh, because this is the most vibrant you’ve seen her since you found her, covered in dark blood and mud, in that abandoned homestead in Hungary. It’s been decades since you’ve seen her care this passionately, so you stifle your laugh and sigh instead.

            “Alright, darling.  At least clean your hair out of the drain after every impulse you feel to massacre it. It’s disgusting.”

            She glares, clenching her jaw again.  With a pointed look from you, she relents, shrugging her shoulders. “Fine, whatever.” You’re pretty sure you hear her mutter “uptight yuppie conformist” but you’re not sure. You let it go.

 

\--

 

She comes stumbling in at four in the morning, slamming the door and falling into the wall.  You hear her mutter some curse words before she stumbles into the living room where you sit on the couch, a glass of blood in hand.  You’re very ready to reprimand her—she had missed a date you two had made that night—but you stop short when you see her state.

            There is blood _everywhere._ It matts her hair into clumps hanging messily into her face; it drenches her ripped t-shirt and drips from her nose. You could hear it squelching in her shoes as she stumbled closer to you, swaying and reeking of cheap beer and whiskey.

            “Oh my _god,_ Calla. What in the _hell_ happened to you?”  You rush to hold her up as she begins to fall forward, your hands fluttering around her messy face as she groans into your shoulder. “Are you alright? This is your blood.”

            She leans heavier into you, and you try not to cringe as she gets god knows what on your vintage Chanel.  “S’alright, it’s not _all_ my,” she coughs wetly, “S’not all my blood.”  This does not make you feel any better.

            “What happened, Calla?” You grimace as you place your hand against her hair.

            “I got stabbed,” she tells you casually.  “But s’okay, ‘cause I broke his,” she coughs again.  “I broke his nose.  And his friends,” another groan, “his friends thought it was….it was rad punk that I got, like, _stabbed_ and jus’ kept—jus’ kept partying, so,” she takes a deep breath and gives you a very proud grin.  It’s bloody. “So they ask—they asked me to party with them.”

            You roll your eyes and start to pull her toward the bathroom. “That’s wonderful, Calla. You’re gaining a reputation as a natural born ruffian in a crowd of urchins and rapscallions.  Stupendous.”

            She gives you a dazzling smile and nods.  “It was so—it was so cool, Mattie, ‘cause—ow, don’t—‘cause one of the guys was—I said _ow,_ Matska—was in the band.” She pushes her hair out of her eyes and looks at you proudly.  “He let me— _OW, Matska,_ fuck—he let me smash his guitar.”

            That probably explains the bloody knuckles and bruised arms. Calla isn’t particularly coordinated when she starts drinking.  “That’s wonderful, darling,” you mutter, pulling her shirt over her head and pushing her onto the toilet seat.  “Simply wonderful.”

            You get her shirt off and grimace, noticing that, among the _multiple stab wounds_ , Calla has a new, messy black scrawl on her stomach.  You sigh heavily.

            “Calla,” you begin tiredly.  “Did you let another stranger tattoo god knows what onto your body.”

            She nods excitedly, then groans.  Looking at you through one eye, she explains, “Some guy in the bathroom offered me a line and I said ‘sure,’ then he asked if I wanted some ink and I said ‘sure,’ so he inked _‘sex’_ into my tummy.” This does not seem to be an issue for Calla, who is running her bloody, curiously bent fingers over the black messy scrawl.  “I don’t know why he wrote sex, but I think it’s pretty rad.”

            “Oh my _god_.  Get in the shower, you tiny ball of existential rage.”

            She scoffs and pushes at you, falling off the toilet seat.  “Fuck.  I—Mattie, do you still love me?”  From the floor, she looks at you with wet eyes.  Her lip trembles.  You sigh and crouch down, figuring your _vintage Chanel_ is done for, anyway, and pull her into you.

            “Of course I do, darling.  You’re a messy, angry, sad girl, and I love you today more than I did yesterday.” You wipe her bloody eyebrow and give her a smile.  “You’re just a little crooked, Calla.  But so am I.”

            She nods slowly, her brow furrowing.  She opens her mouth, stutters a bit, then closes it.

            “Calla?” you ask, touching her jaw.  She flinches, then hiccups wetly.  “What is it?”

            A tear falls onto your thumb and her lip trembles again before she opens her mouth and mutters, “they won’t bend back.  I keep trying, but they won’t bend back.”

            You’re confused, and covered in blood and old beer and probably spit, crouched on a bathroom floor.  But before you can ask what she means, she continues.

            “I keep—I keep trying to straighten them out, but they hurt, and I can’t get them back into place.  They hurt.” She’s rubbing her wrists methodically, up and down, lingering on the jutting bone beneath the palm. A heavy weight drops in your stomach and you don’t say anything else.  She sniffles, rubs her bloody knuckles under her nose. 

            She falls asleep on your lap as you card your fingers through her clean hair, sniffles fading into stuttered breathing—a human habit she has refused to let go of.  You don’t ask her why anymore.

            When she goes out again the next night, whiskey on her breath and cloudy eyes, you don’t stop her.  You smile gently, braid a chunk of her hair, push her out the door.

            “Have fun, Calla,” you call.  She flips you off with a smile, turning down the hallway in a blur of safety pins and black.

**Author's Note:**

> CHASE THE FLAME.  
> carm/giles comin atcha, nerds.
> 
> thanks victoria.


End file.
